Life Cycle

“Grow up,” I tell the bike messenger.  “And give me what I asked for.  You know it’s not yours.”

            I’m standing on a traffic island in one of San Francisco’s widest and busiest intersections.  After watching this guy blaze past the island every hour on the hour all morning, I had finally gotten lucky and a red light stopped him right in front of me. Lean tattooed body, tight jean shorts with ragged hems, and a bright pink cycling cap. He unclipped one shoe from its pedal and stood looking at the red light impatiently. That’s when I told him to get off the bike.  Unsurprisingly, he did not like that.  Bike thieves never do.

“You’re not getting my bike,” he yells, adjusting the enormous sack on his back. “And get that camera out of my face!”

“Sorry, can’t do that,” I say as I snap photos of him from all angles. “I might need these for a ‘wanted’ poster if you don’t give it back.”  Just then, the light turns green and he sprints into the intersection, bouncing me aside.  He glances back as he pulls away, a deep frown on his face.

“You better not be here when I come back,” he said.  His voice was thick with hate, just like the other thieves before him.  None of them had delivered on their threats, though. So statistically speaking, this one was apt to be just as cowardly.

             “You sure about this one?” asked a familiar voice behind me.  The voice belongs to Greg, an old but sharp-witted homeless guy with an easy smile and a cachet of jokes far dirtier than the huge blanket he drapes around himself. He is my constant companion on the island, and I’m happy to see him. As usual, Greg’s face is barely visible from under the hibiscus-patterned folds of his blanket. Things crawl all over the hibiscus flowers and the stains around them. Definitely bed bugs, I think.

“That bike is stolen,” I said.  “I just sent the owner a picture of it and she confirmed. Same custom job and everything. And we get paid to get them back, right?  So yeah, I’m sure.” 

“Gotcha,” said Greg, pulling his blanket tighter around him.  He was avoiding eye contact, which meant he was still uneasy.  

“Something wrong?” I asked.

“I was just thinking . . . the other crooks got scared,” he said.  “He doesn’t look like the scared type, Terry.  You might have to get rough with him.”

“Nah,” I said, dismissing that possibility with a swipe of my hand.  “Besides, look at that pink hat.  He’s too pretty to be violent.  Nothing’s going to happen.”

Boy, was I wrong.

Because the PinkHatter’s hourly arrival at the island is as predictable as he is spiteful, I decide to use the next hour for my regular day job as a photojournalist. I pull on my fingerless gloves, adjust the camera strap around my neck, and survey the intersection, ready to aim my camera at anything extraordinary.  Plenty of time to get some good shots before he comes back.

And that is when she appears. A little old lady in black corduroys, an oversized white shirt, and a broad-brimmed hat is crossing the street towards the island. Nothing special about that, except she is walking backwards, and at an alarming pace. Incredible. I raise my camera to capture this, hoping she gets stuck on the island so I could ask her what the heck she was thinking. 

As I zoom in on her, from behind me Greg suddenly starts screaming. “Terry, get down!” 

My entire body flashes hot. I don’t even have time to lower my camera. But I do turn my head in time to catch the blur of a pink hat, the wicked grin underneath, and of course, the mini baseball bat that shatters my overpriced camera, along with what feels like multiple bones in my left hand.

The pain is so instant and bright that I drop to my knees. My eyes water as my hand pulsates like a jackhammer. I look to my right and see that PinkHatter has slowed almost to a stop a few feet away, admiring the damage to my camera and hand. He is almost glowing with satisfaction. But slowing down is PinkHatter’s mistake, because right then a huge hibiscus-covered blanket laced with bed bugs and goodness knows what other terrible things lands squarely on top of him, engulfing his bike and knocking him to the ground right next to the island.

“Got him!” cries Greg. 

I am so grateful I could almost kiss Greg. I walk over to where PinkHatter lay squirming and cursing as he tries in vain to free himself from Greg’s tainted blanket. That’s when I see that his cycling shoes are still locked into the pedals. 

“Don’t. Move,” I say between my teeth. A few people are starting to gather, but Greg handles them.

“Give them some air,” he says, waving them back. “Somebody call 911!” 

“I’ll do it,” I say.  This seems to satisfy the onlookers that things are under control and they move on. But I do not call 911. Instead, I pull out my phone with my good hand and pretend to call. Ignoring the pain in my bad hand, I step closer to PinkHatter. He is lying on his side, trapped on the bike, but has managed to get the blanket off his head. Incredibly, the pink cap is still on. But the grin is long gone, replaced by an expression of growing terror. And as I kneel next to him, I tremble in anticipation of how badly I’m going to mess this guy up for what he did to me.  He must have seen that darkness in my eyes. 

“Stay the hell away from me!” he yells.

“I’ll do no such thing,” I whisper. “I’m staying right here until you get the treatment you deserve.” The pain in my hand is almost unbearable, but relief can wait, because PinkHatter needs to be taught a lesson.

I lift the blanket and see one of his hands pinned under the handlebar at the wrist; the fingers exposed. I look at Greg, and he nods once, understanding what I’m about to do. Cars whiz by, but we’re so close to the edge of the island that none of the drivers seem to care much, and they just go around us.  Making sure no-one except Greg is looking, I move the blanket back into place over PinkHatter’s trapped hand, place the heel of my boot over it, and I stand up hard, pressing and twisting every one of my two hundred and fifteen pounds on those skinny tattooed fingers. They crunch underneath and, aside from PinkHatter’s horrific screams, that crunching sound is the best I have ever heard. 

“He’ll be alright,” I say to a random passerby over PinkHatter’s screams. “Ambulance is on the way.”

As we wait for that imaginary ambulance, I kneel back down for another heart to heart with PinkHatter. “Shut up,” I say, “Or this filthy blanket goes right down your throat.” He stops screaming instantly. “See my hand?” I hold it up right in his face. “Two nails gone.  Won’t be able to hold a camera for weeks.”   I stood up, boot still pressing on his hand. He grimaced. “Plus, you broke my camera, buddy. So I would say you owe me.  Like, a lot.” 

I pause, and take a look at the bike.  Still intact.  The owner will be happy and I’ll get paid.  “I’m going to take that off your hands, sir,” I say. “And you’re going to disappear before any cops show up.  We understand each other?”

PinkHatter nods, his mouth in a crooked frown.

“Get the bike Greg,” I say. He does, and hands it to me. Greg also retrieves his hibiscus blanket — and snatches PinkHatter’s hat as a souvenir — just before we hear a police siren approaching. Greg vanishes down an alley, and I take off on PinkHatter’s bike in the opposite direction to find a clinic. Now invisible without his distinctive hat, PinkHatter blends into the pedestrian traffic. I find Greg hours later sitting outside a convenience store, more than a little tipsy from whatever is in the bottle he is holding.  I feel as tired as he looks, so I sit next to him. He smiles as I hand him a cup of coffee with a motel room key on top of it.

“Same place as last time?”

“Yeah. And Greg, grab a new blanket before you check out. That one stinks, man.  PinkHatter agrees.”

We both burst out laughing. “When are you going to grow up, Terry,” Greg asks as he wipes away the laugh tears.

“As long we keep doing our thing on that island?” I say.  “Never.”